


unseen

by thebowtie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mycroft Holmes/Original Character(s) - Freeform, Sibling Incest, brother incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebowtie/pseuds/thebowtie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>about things that happen behind closed doors and do not count as incest, as long as they remain unseen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the very first time

**Author's Note:**

> this fanfiction is based on my mylock askblog (askmylock.tumblr.com) which deals with the incestuous relationship of the holmes brothers.  
> i've never written anything in english before and so i'm not quite sure whether it makes sense. i'm very open to every kind of review and corrector.  
> the chapters won't always be in chronologically order, but it will always be given in which time they're taking place.

_(Mycroft is 24,  Sherlock is 16)_

Mycroft always had been quite good when it came to logical thinking and thinking about the most logical things to do in unpleasant situations. It was one of his most important characteristics not only considering the position he wanted to reach, but also in his own opinion.

So in view of this fact he should have reacted as soon as he had observed the situation. But he had not. He had opened the door to Sherlock’s room. He had noticed his brother being on the bed, naked and obviously very preoccupied with himself. He should have turn around and close the door behind him. He should have never think about it again. But he had not. He was still standing in the doorway staring at the pale body of his little brother, simply unable to move or at least look away.

Maybe it was just the fact that he really did not expect this. Because he absolutely did not. God, he never even imagined it. At least not fully awake. But even if he maybe had dreamed of this before – nothing could ever compare with the reality. And it was undoubted the real Sherlock Mycroft was looking at. His real brother. One hand closed around his cock the other one digging into the sheets beside him. And he could not help it, but he found himself instinctly wishing to be the skin under this long fingers; to feel this slightly open mouth on his very own body.

And he was shocked. Shocked about his forbidden thoughts, about his body’s reaction betraying him shamelessly. But the worst (and somehow very best) of all were Sherlock’s eyes. Because Sherlock was fully aware of his presence in the room. How could he not be? Mycroft had not bothered to open the door quietly and Sherlock perhaps had been engrossed in his actions, but he was not that lost. So his grey eyes were glancing at Mycroft. Blown with lust and despite the darkness much brighter than they usually were. 

After something that felt like an eternity (or so people different from him might have said, since it was not even a minute he was standing in this doorway, but it seemed to him like a quite long time), however, he turned around and left. He walked away and he did not allow himself to stop until he sat down in his own room door securely closed behind him.

This night he came over the thought of his little brother for the very first time.


	2. there will be oblivion

_(Mycroft is 24)_

People need their time to forget. It takes ages, but eventually it will happen and even the most dangerous and unpleasant memories will fade. That at least was what Mycroft was telling himself.

The body that was pressed against his was soft and curvy. Not very surprisingly for the woman to which it belonged was quite the same. A dark-eyed, tender creature who stood in perfect contrast to whatever it totally wasn't that Mycroft didn't want at all. Furthermore she was warm, hot, and she smelled of sweat and perfume and sex. Her long brown hair was clinging to both their bodies and her breath was ridiculously heavy in comparison to his. She didn't seem to notice and he really couldn't blame her. She was the same as all the others. Nice, with out any doubt, but not what his body was longing for.

He shuddered of the thought how much he’d prefer a slim, male body beneath him and dark damp curls under his fingers; how very unhelpful of his mind to remember him. He’d forbidden himself to choose any male partners a few weeks ago. It never ended well. Not for him. There’s no one who could ever compete with Sherlock anyways.

And there it was. This name he’d tried to banish from his brain, once again without any success. Not that he’d tried any hard this time. Probably it was too late already. He was cursed and it was obvious. It was getting more and more obvious when his erection twitched just of the thought of his damn brother, inside a woman, who was chosen so carefully the opposite of everything Sherlock was to him. And as it seemed Sherlock was everything. His delicious little brother with his pale skin, his bright eyes and his remarkably intellect had made a mess out of his mind and there was neither hope nor relief in sight. The worst thing of all, however, was that a part of him enjoyed that thought of it, because, oh, Sherlock wouldn't just be a fuck. He’d be so much more. He’d fit with him, complete him not only physically but on a higher level no one apart of them even knew about. According to this very perverted and corrupted part of his mind they could be perfection. And Mycroft didn't need anything else than this to come apart.

Later on alone again in his flat he might have actually felt the urge to cry, but he didn't though. It wouldn't be like this forever. He’d forget and in the end there was no way he had to feel guilt about something that only ever happened in the depths of his head. And that was where he’d let it happen until the day he’d wake up and think of something else than of how Sherlock’s innocence would taste on his lips.


	3. the lack of data

_(Sherlock is 17)_

How was there even a way Mycroft did not know? Sherlock shook his head slightly, eyes closed in half frustation, half amusement. Mycroft simply had to see it. It was damn obvious, wasn't it? Like - for God's sake - he _had walked in on him_. And still Sherlock could tell he didn't know. It was too far from the possible, probably. Too strange, too...gross. And then when had Sherlock ever been anything else than that. Maybe there was no way to see this most obvious detail through all of his grossness. And Mycroft's own silly way of thinking himself to be so very much more important and smart than anyone else most likely did it's part too. Sherlock's hand sped up.  
In his mind he could see his older brother standing in the doorway. And, ugh, how ordinary to  project it this way over and over again. Jerking off to a picture couldn't be more odd.

_And still it doesn't outdo jerking off to the thought of one's own brother, does it, Sherly?_

Sherlock frowned at the missing data of how the real Mycroft would pronounce such filthy words. His breathing got more uneven anyway. The eyes of (not quite) his brother glistened with superiority. Sometimes he wondered whether his childhood was somehow responsible for this or whether it was simply the way he was (a freak). Either way it didn't bother him, really. What bothered him were the close by hand problems. Such as his hand (literally) not being quite enough. Not when he knew there could be more.

_Yes, you'd like that, would you not, brother dear? My hand on your cock. My mouth. Me inside you._

It sounded empty, not-Mycroft-like, but it was close enough - for his aroused body anyways.  
In the aftermath he usually found himself frustraded at how very little it needed to make him come - on the one side. On the other side he couldn't help a cocky smirk thinking of how Mycroft would react to the knowledge of his little brother getting off so easily to the mere thought of him. It did hardly count as ordinary to think this way when it was about Mycroft. He wondered lazily whether Mycroft was still gaining weight. God new it didn't bother him, if anything he kind of liked it, but it was pleasuring in some way to see him bothered about it. The come on his stomach was bulidig a cooling pool around his navel now. Outside the sun was going down already, in a bunch of golden light and purple white clouds, he narrowed his eyes. He would need rain for the experiment with the blood stains (what use was it to live in England when the sun was shining anyways?). He streched out and fetched cigarette from the drawer of his bedside table. While smoking he tried to decide on the best way to get more data about Mycroft naked or - even better - in a uniform.

_Getting kinky now, are we?_

Sherlock smiled silently. Sentiment. Mycroft would laugh at him.


	4. the pain of loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a gap of several years between this chapter and the last ones. I will fill it later, no worries. also i'm not at all sure bout the tense I used in this chapter - please tell me if it doesn't make any sense at all.

_(Mycroft is 27, Sherlock is 21)_

Some nights Mycroft would lay awake in his bed, thinking of his brother and his chest would feel as though it was going to rip to shreds. Indeed it could get so unbearable that he wished he was dead - a thought he'd never admit to himself, not even in his darkest hours.  
In those nights he'd become painfully aware of what it meant to long for the presence of another body, not any body, t h a t one body. And the realization of the full terrible meaning of loving someone, flesh and soul, would hit him with the force of a bomb. There wouldn't be no explosions to be heard, of course. In fact, he wouldn't even move. Nothing ever changed.   
He would just lay awake, thinking of his brother, and he would cry. With the pure and desparate intensity of a man who had lost the only thing he ever loved, a man who would give everything to undo his own fault, but couldn't - he'd lost Sherlock.  
And it broke his heart.  

 

Miles apart, in the same city, but not necesserily in the same night, Sherlock Holmes would wake from a trip, tears on his face - unable to even remember why he felt so empty. 


	5. Chapter 5

_( Mycroft is 29, Sherlock is 22)_

 

There are times when we not quiet know how to proceed with our being; where to put our living and strangely blunt insides. It was something that always came suddenly and so Mycroft never cared to wait for it. When a sign showed, however, he noticed. Sometimes he just knew when he woke up. It had little to do with what exactly Sherlock was doing. Most times he was already awake, but lying next to him motionlessly, other times he was still sleeping and two times he'd been sitting at the edge of the bed next to Mycroft's feet, so he could only see his pale back. It was rather a feeling deep down in his bones than a deduction. Or maybe he simply knew without being able to pin point how his mind got there. Sometimes it wasn't until Sherlock's gaze changed just the moment before their lips met that he recognized it. Whenever it happened, it made something shift inside him. Nothing big - in the end it wasn't like they didn't act tenderly towards each other on other occasions, even in general - but somehow it made everything feel sweeter in a not-body-bound kind of way neither of them couldn't quite put into clear thoughts. 

There was something different in the way they hold on each other when the kiss deepened, the way they undressed same as always, but with their hands lightly shaking. There was rarely something rushed about it, but they didn't waste time on unnecessary pausing neither. Their eyes were connected almost all the time apart from the kisses, but there was no mocking behind them, no challenges or provocations.

There was no pattern of who was in charge when they lay together on the bed, the couch, the floor. They just found to each other breathing in and kissing every part of the other's skin they could reach, their bodies trying to express all the unspeakable affection and everything they thought was far beyond it. In those moments there wasn't even the idea of what they had being about possession, power or rivalry. It was Mycroft giving himself up to his brother and Sherlock both drowning and somehow being saved in it.  

 


End file.
